Protect Me From Harm
by firecracker189
Summary: Clint feels! Series of Oneshot snippets into the relationship between Clint and Phil. Just fluff. No Clint/ Phil as a pairing. When Clint is at his lowest, he needs Phil around to keep him sane. NOTE: I do take requests. No dirty ones, please.
1. Chapter 1

The young agent glanced back at the small form lying in the bed. Poor kid. He'd had a rough way of it, and not just tonight. The kid's father had been a drunk, taking out his anger on his wife and two boys. He'd finally ended up killing himself and his wife in a drunken car crash when the kid was six. The boys had been dumped unceremoniously by social services at the local orphanage, where they'd stayed for a few years before running off with the traveling circus. They'd had a break for a few years, learning and watching. Turns out the kid was a real talent with a bow, earning himself a slot in the main show, alongside his mentor. Then, like life was playing a cruel joke on him, the boy had found out a few months earlier that his mentor and father figure was embezzling funds. That night he'd made his move, but the older man was too much for the boy, and easily overpowered him. He was nearly dead by the time Coulson and his team had stepped in.

Shaking his head, Coulson scooted his chair closer to the bed, staring down at the broken child.

As he watched, the boy began to jerk and whimper, clearly in the midst of a nightmare.

Something inside the young agent clicked, and he reached out to the boy, taking his hand.

"Shh… It's okay." He reassured, rubbing gentle circles on the boy's hand with his thumb. "You're alright. That's it. You're fine, nobody's going to hurt you." Phil soothed, coaxing the boy's eyes open.

Slowly, bit by bit, Phil was rewarded for his efforts with a pair of shining black eyes. He nearly flinched at the depths of the emotion written there. Pain. Despair. Agony. Betrayal. Loneliness. A child who was utterly alone in the world. Tears welled up in the child's eyes, cascading down his cheeks in a waterfall of emotion.

Heart wrenching in his chest, Phil moved to the edge of the bed, taking the boy in his arms. The poor boy came without resistance, burying his face in Phil's jacket, fisting the material in his hands. Phil rocked back and forth, rubbing the boy's back gently.

"Shh… It's okay. You're all right."

"Who…" the boy sniffed. "Who're you?"

"My name is Phil."

Sniffling, the boy pulled back, staring Phil in the face. "I'm Clint."

Phil stuck out a hand. "Nice to meet you, Clint."

The boy returned the handshake, exhaustion showing plain on his little face. Phil sighed, lifting the boy out of his lap and plopping him back into bed.

"You look tired Clint. You should get some sleep."

The boy's eyes widened. "No!" He answered quickly.

Phil's forehead creased. "Why not?"

Clint stared down at the cast covering his leg, fiddling with the hem of his gown. "Because, if I go to sleep, the nightmares will come back." He whispered.

Coulson's face softened, his heart going out to the boy.

"I'm going to sit right here Clint. That way, when you go to sleep, the nightmares won't come."

"Promise?"

The look in his eyes was so broken and sad that Phil would never, in his wildest dreams have said no to that face.

"I promise. Now go to sleep."

Clint snuggled beneath the blankets, eyes drifting shut.

Phil scooted his chair closer, laying his hand on the side of the mattress.

Clint grabbed it gratefully, holding it tightly as he drifted off.

_I promise, Clint Barton, I will never leave you alone. _


	2. Chapter 2

"No. No! Please!" The tortured cry broke through the still atmosphere of the room, propelling the five weary inhabitants to their feet. Sprinting down the hallway at top speed, the Avengers arrived at the doorway to Clint's room. The two assassins had returned only a few hours ago from a mission, Clint sustaining a minor injury, but enough of one that Banner immediately insisted the weary archer turn in early.

"I'll go first, Bruce, you follow. The rest of you, stay put." Natasha commanded, hand on the doorknob. "He saw me last, so I should be able to calm him down." She takes a deep breath before pushing open the door. She moves quickly, eyes darting to take in the scene before her.

Clint lay thrashing on the bed, tangled in the sheets, sweat pouring down his face.

"No, please." Clint whimpered, curling into a ball. "Barney! Make it stop!"

Natasha approached the bed cautiously, arms outstretched. "Clint!" She said forcefully, leaning over the sleeping man. "Wake up, you're having a bad dream."

Clint's whimpers increased in pitch, tears sliding down his face. "NO! Barney, don't leave! BARNEY!"

Natasha flinches, a stricken look passing over her face.

"Natasha?" Bruce ventures cautiously. "Natasha, if he doesn't calm down, he'll pull his stitches out."

"I know." She whispers. "It's just… I've never seen him this bad. Usually he suffers in silence until he wakes up and starts wandering around."

Bruce blinks, surprised that she would have never seen her long time partner suffering this badly. "And you usually get him to calm down?"

She nods. "But… I don't know if I can when he's this bad."

Bruce places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Can you try?"

Another nod, a determined look replacing pity.

"I'm right here." He reassures, stepping closer to the bed in case things get out of hand.

"Clint? It's me, Natasha. You're having a nightmare, you need to wake up." Natasha sits on the end of the bed, leaning over the pitiful ball of sadness that is Clint.

A whimper escapes his mouth, his eyes rolling beneath the closed lids.

"Clint!" She tries again.

A shuddering gasp, a flicker of white as his eyes open, then jerk closed again.

"Clint?" Softer, reassuring.

He flinches at the name, seeming to draw deeper into himself.

"Clint, can you hear me?" Bruce steps up, voice dripping with calm and reassurance. The voice reserved for the sick and injured. "It's Bruce, Clint. I need to take a look at your shoulder, can you sit up for me?"

"Stay away." The rasp is low, dangerous, the threat of a cornered animal. He raises his head, eyes glassy and unfocused.

Bruce raises his hands, stepping away. "All right Clint. That's fine. I'm not going to touch you."

Clint curls up again, shaking violently from head to foot.

Bruce motions for Natasha to move away. She rises, Clint's pain mirrored in her face, and exits the room swiftly. Bruce follows, grabbing her arm. "He's still in his dream." He whispers, gesturing. "Stuck in his own mind, tortured by his memories."

Natasha's eyes widen suddenly, remembering something Phil had once told her.

"JARVIS!" She calls, relief seeping into her voice.

_Yes Ms. Romanoff?_

"Get Coulson down here immediately! Tell him what he hoped would never happen again is happening!"

_Right away Ms Romanoff._

Bruce frowned. "What—"

Natasha cuts him off, voice full of emotion. "When I first started working with Clint, Coulson pulled me aside one day. Said he had something important to tell me if I was going to be Clint's long term partner." She licked her lips, casting a sad glance at the open door. "He told me that Clint suffered nightmares, terrible ones. That when Clint was a teenager and young child, he would have flashbacks—dreams of the torture he had undergone at the hands of his mentor… and his brother. He said that when Clint turned nineteen, they suddenly disappeared, replaced by nightmares of what happened on missions, men he'd killed. He said that if Clint ever had one of these dreams and he wasn't close, I was to retreat from Clint and leave him be until he regained his faculties. But if he was close, I was to let him know immediately, because he is the only person who is able to calm Clint down when he gets like this." She shook her head, eyes shining, turned on her heel, and fled.

Bruce sighed, shaking his head. Poor kid. In his mind, the Hulk was roaring about smashing the ones who caused his Cupid so much pain. He silently agreed that if he had them there, he wanted them smashed as well for the injustice and turmoil they had caused the boy.

"Bruce!" He turned to see Coulson hurrying up the hall towards him. "Where is he?"

"In the bedroom. I'm worried he may have pulled his stitches, the way he was thrashing around earlier."

Coulson nodded. "I'll check once I get him calmed down enough." He quickly strode the last few steps into Clint's room, closing the door quietly behind him.

His heart wrenched at the sight before him. Clint lay huddled in the corner, shaking from head to foot with violent tremors, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and he was muttering to himself.

Walking towards him slowly, Phil raised his hands, showing they were empty. "Clint? Buddy, it's me, Phil. Natasha said you were having a bad dream?"

Clint's head jerked up as the sound of Phil's familiar voice washed over him.

"P—Phil?" He sniffed.

"I'm here Clint." Kneeling beside the younger man, Phil continued talking, his voice soothing, coaxing Clint back to the present.  
Clint visibly relaxed as he talked, his eyes gradually losing their glassiness, the tremors becoming less violent.

Phil let his eyes travel over Clint, doing a mental inventory for any injuries. His eyes came to rest on Clint's left shoulder, where a small spot of blood has seeped through his white undershirt. Bruce was right, he'd pulled the stitches a little, but not completely out.

He kept talking, babbling about nothing, his voice low and calming, until finally, Clint's eyes cleared, and he lay shivering.

He cast his eyes around, taking in his surroundings, eyes coming to rest on Phil's concerned face.

"Phil?" Phil's forehead creased with worry; his name had come out as a plea, the voice of a broken child, not a capable agent.

"Yes, Clint?"

Clint's eyes filled with tears, a sob ripping its way past his throat. "Barney promised he wouldn't let them hurt me, but they did."

Phil's eyes misted over. "I know Buddy. I know." He ran his hands through Clint's hair, the way he had so many years ago when Clint was a child.

"Come here Bud." Phil opened his arms, and Clint came willingly, because he trusted Phil. He trusted him the way he trusted no one else. He buryed his head in Phil's shoulder, fisting his suit jacket in both hands.

"It's all right, Clint. You're fine." Phil soothed, rocking gently from side to side. "You're going to be okay. I'm right here."

They stayed that way, Phil murmuring soothing nonsense and rocking until Clint's tears reduced themselves to a gentle but steady trickle.

"Clint?" Phil rubbed his back gently. "Buddy, do you think you could get back into bed?"

Clint tensed against Phil.

"I won't leave you." He promised. "Now let's get you back in bed. Come on, up you get." Gently, he lifted Clint to his feet, leading him over to the bed.

Clint crawled under the covers, the light reflecting off his wet face. Covering Clint with the blankets, Phil reached into his pocket, gently wiping the tears with his handkerchief.

Sitting down beside the boy, Phil began to run his fingers through Clint's hair, soothing him. Phil is careful to leave his close hand free, for he knows Clint will end up grabbing it before he is calm enough to sleep.

"Relax. I'm right here, I won't let the bad dreams come back." He whispers softly.

Clint rolls over on his side, grabbing Phil's free hand in his own and drawing it to his chest.

"Don't leave." He whispers brokenly, a lone tear sliding down his face as his breathing begins to even out.

"I'm not going anywhere." Phil promises with conviction, continuing to stroke Clint's hair.

"I'll be here when you wake up." He whispers, staring down at the sleeping Clint.

When Natasha enters the room in the morning, it is to find a sleeping Clint, looking the most relaxed and peaceful she's ever seen him, hugging Phil's hand to his chest. Phil has nodded off next to Clint, his free hand entangled in Clint's mess of hair. A smile ghosts her lips as she realizes he must have fallen asleep comforting the younger man. She backs out of the room quietly, not wanting to disturb either of them. She mentally logs away the fact that next time Clint is in trouble, she knows exactly who to call. Because Phil Coulson will always care for Clint, the boy he raised. And he would never leave him alone. He'd promised hadn't he?


	3. Chapter 3

Clasping his hands, Phil scowled across the desk at Fury. The man's lips were moving, but Phil's ears had long since ceased to register sound. What did Fury mean, sending a child out into the field? The kid could barely tie his shoes, and Fury wanted him to take down a highly trained assassin, _alone_!? Okay, so maybe Phil was exaggerating, the kid had just turned 16; but that didn't make him any less worried about him. He was still so young. Although he was no stranger to the cruelty of the world, he'd never been on a mission before, he wasn't even old enough to be a real agent! Phil shuddered to think of what could befall Clint out there. Alone. At the mercy of one of the world's coldest killers. Sure, he was a dead shot with a bow, but that brought Phil little comfort.

Startled, Phil looks up. Fury is staring him down, mouth no longer moving.

"Sorry sir, but what was that?" Coulson asks, licking his dry lips.

Fury heaves an exasperated sigh. "I _said_, Agent Coulson, Barton leaves tomorrow morning. O Six Hundred. First flight to Nigeria."

"Is that all Sir?" Phil asks, already standing.

"That is all, Agent Coulson."

Phil turns, crosses the room in three quick strides, wrenches open the door, and stalks to the elevator. Mashing the buttons carelessly, he steps inside, relishing the peace the empty elevator brings. He sags against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that, whether he likes it or not ( and he most certainly does not), Clint will be leaving in the morning. Leaving, with the possible chance he won't make it back alive.

The elevator dings quietly, announcing its arrival at Coulson's floor. He steps out, fumbling in his jacket for the apartment keys. Making his way down the hallway, he inserts the key into the lock, pushing open the door roughly. He throws his keys on the kitchen table, stripping off his jacket and holster and dropping them on the floor. Moving to the sink, he fills the kettle, deciding he needs a strong cup of tea.

While waiting on the tea, he slips into the bedroom, stripping himself of his tie, shirt and pants, and pulls on a comfortable t-shirt and pair of sweat pants. Tossing the clothes in a pile on the floor, he turns back to the kitchen, pouring himself a steaming mug of water. He peruses the stash of tea bags, staring bleakly down as if they contain all the answers to life. Drawing one at random, he plops it into the mug, glancing up when he hears the door shut.

"Phil? You in here?"

Footsteps rapidly approach, and he is rewarded with the sight of friend and fellow agent Maria Hill. Hill has her arms full of brown paper bags, and Phil smells the aroma of Chinese takeout. She tips the corner of her mouth into a sympathetic grimace, eyes understanding as she takes in the pathetic sight of Phil staring misty eyed into his mug of green tea.

"I brought food." She offers, placing the bags onto the table and unloading containers before him. She reaches into the second bag, placing two ice cold beers beside the containers of noodles. "Thought you'd go for something a little stronger." She pops the top, placing it at his elbow.

He nods, accepting the drink, taking a long pull.

Maria clears away the empty bags, sitting down across from Phil and twirling her fork through a container of Pad Thai.

Phil works his way through a plate of egg rolls, grateful for the company.

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, eating their fill.

Maria stares over her empty Pad Thai box, fiddling with the lid to her beer, piercing Phil with her discerning stare. He clears his throat, draining the last of the beer.

"You should have seen him. That night, I mean. He was alone out there in the middle of the desert. Left to die, tortured at the hands of his mentor and his brother. His _brother_, Hill!"

Phil is silent for a beat, eyes far away, re-living the memories of that night.

"We'd been on his trail for weeks, Fury had us working around the clock to locate the kid. He wanted him so badly once he saw what he was capable of… We finally caught up to them just outside Santa Fe. And then…" He shudders, remembering the extents of Clint's injuries. "He was so small, so…" He searches for a word, misty eyed once again. "_broken_. When we showed up, I thought he was dead. Thought I'd failed. I had Jacobs check his pulse. Couldn't bring myself to. When he said Clint was alive I—I was so relieved. I couldn't believe the kid had survived so much damage…" He smiles, remembering how Clint trusted him from the beginning, not hesitating to accept the comfort he had to offer a broken child. Hill covers Phil's free hand with her own, eyes suspiciously moist. Phil squeezes her hand gratefully, swallowing at the overwhelming emotions. "Now," He continues, fighting to keep his voice strong, " now Fury wants to send him out into the field to track and kill one of the world's most highly trained assassins! He's only sixteen, Maria. Sixteen! And not even a full fledged agent yet! He's only a boy. Since when did it become acceptable to send a boy to do a man's job? Maria…" Phil's voice drops to barely above a whisper, agony showing plainly on his face. "H—he could die, Maria."

She squeezes his hand consolingly. "Yes Phil, he could." She answers seriously, understanding shining in her teary eyes as she realizes what he's saying. "And you're worried you'll be left alone again, like you were before Clint."

He nods, bowing his head. "It's just…" He licks his lips. "I've had Clint now for seven years, a—" His voice breaks with emotion. "and these seven years have been the best of my life." He grips her hand tighter. "He's taught me so much… he's taught me how to love, how to feel compassion, how to offer comfort… he's given me a glimpse into what it's like to be a parent. I wouldn't trade it for the world…" He breaks off, the tears getting the best of him. Maria wipes a tear of her own off her cheek, leaning forward and placing a hand on Phil's cheek.

"Look at me." She whispers, pulling his chin up to meet his watery broken gaze. "I know you love him Phil, and it's evident that Clint loves you too. He knows the dangers facing him, and he'll perform to the best of his ability. I know he will, because he has your standards to live up to; and it _would_ kill him to let you down. He loves you too much to disappoint you. I know you're upset, but we just have to trust in Clint's abilities. He's got a good head and good instincts, he'll be fine." She smirks in irony. Phil raises an eyebrow in question.

"It's just…" She chuckles. "you're suffering from empty-nest syndrome, and Clint's stage name from the circus was Hawkeye!"

Phil chuckles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Guess the baby bird is flying the nest."

Maria's pager buzzes insistently, she reaches to her belt, unclipping it to see what's the matter.

Running her fingers through her hair, she sighs. "Fury needs me to supervise the new recruits." Standing, she gathers up the remnants of their shared supper. "I'm getting too old for this." She mutters, clapping Phil reassuringly on the shoulder. "It'll be alright. You'll see." She shuts the door with a snap, and Phil can hear her cursing at the young agents all the way down the hallway and into the elevator.

"Did you mean that?" Clint's voice is thick with emotion, his black eyes trained on Phil's neck.

Phil turns slowly, hazel eyes meeting obsidian. "Every word." He says with conviction. He should have guessed Clint was hiding somewhere near. He had a habit of hiding in places where he could observe, but not be observed. Fury insisted it would make him a great agent. Phil was just creeped out.

"Did Hill?" Clint asks.

Phil nods. "Every word."

Silence for a beat, then:

"I don't want to leave, Phil." It is scarcely above a whisper. Clint has his head bowed, staring at his boot laces.

"I know." Phil stares at the table top, vision blurring. "I don't want you to either."

"What if—" He pauses. "What if I'm not ready?"

"You are." Phil assures, still carefully scrutinizing the table.

"I don't want to die."

"You won't. I promise. I won't let you. Have I ever broken a promise to you, Clint?"

Phil leaves the question hanging in the suddenly suffocating air. Clint does not reply, because he knows that Phil always keeps his promises to Clint. He has never let him down once.

He struggles valiantly to keep the tears at bay, worry and nervousness overwhelming him. It is only when he detects the almost imperceptible rising and falling motions of Phil's shoulders that he releases the tears.

Stepping forward, he squeezes Phil's shoulder. Phil stands quickly, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Bed." He orders.

Clint stands awkwardly, hand clamped on air, startled out of tears at the suddenness of Phil's movement.

"Now." Phil intones, giving the boy a firm look.

Clint goes, knowing Phil will brook no argument. He stands in the small bathroom, stripping off his clothes and pulling on a pair of pajama pants.

A subdued Phil makes an appearance as Clint is finishing brushing his teeth. He stands, watching as Clint rinses his toothbrush, caps the tooth paste, and returns them to their rightful places. His eyes follow Clint as he exits the bathroom.

Utterly exhausted, Clint flops down on Phil's bed, curling into a ball. He listens quietly to the familiar noises of Phil's nightly routine, eyes tracing patterns in the carpet.

It is a few moments before Phil emerges, dressed in a clean pair of pajamas that smell of laundry detergent. He stops for a moment, eying Clint, before flicking off the light and crawling up beside him.

Clint suppresses a sniffle, the dark parts of his mind pointing out that this could be the last night they spend together. He struggles for a few minutes, desperation building before finally rolling over and grabbing a fistful of Phil's shirt to reassure himself he's not alone.

"I'm scared." He whispers into the darkness.

"I know." Phil's voice is tremulous, as if he too is afraid this will be their last night together.

Then Phil does something he hasn't in a while. He wraps his arms around Clint and begins to hum softly, a technique he resorted to long ago to ward off the nightmares. Clint relaxes into Phil's embrace, concentrating on the comforting feel of Phil's strong arms encircling him, the deep timbre of his hum, the soft whir of the air conditioner, the rhythmic thud of Phil's heart beneath his ear. He knows there will be no nightmares tonight, because Phil won't let them come.

Phil's sense of bereavement is tangible, and Clint wonders if his own is as palpable.

"Don't be scared, Clint. I have confidence in you. You'll do great, and get your man and come home all in one piece." _Because I will never leave you alone._

A sleepy silence hangs in the air, although heavy with loss. Phil resumes humming quietly, feeling Clint's breathing begin to even out.

"G'na miss you Phil." Clint slurs sleepily, snuggling deeper into his chest. The last thought that floats through his head before sleep claims him is that Phil will be right there for him when he comes back. Phil will always be there to welcome him back.

Phil smiles, never pausing in his gentle lullaby, knowing that's as close to an "I love you" as he'll get from Clint. Tightening his arms around the boy, Phil relaxes, knowing that Clint Barton will do just fine.


End file.
